


Ode to Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, by His Very Obedient Wife

by potatoesanddreams



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth, Extended Metaphors, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I would have tagged it Ar-Pharazon/Tar-Miriel, Poetry, Sarcasm, Satire, as it's set during their marriage, but uh. it's a bit. aggressively not shippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:47:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28364898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potatoesanddreams/pseuds/potatoesanddreams
Summary: The King of Westernesse, the Golden OneWho rules by right of calling it his rightThat he should rule...A poem by the Queen of Númenor. If anyone suspects that its praise is less than wholly earnest, they have only to ask her, and she will deny it.
Relationships: Ar-Pharazôn & Sauron | Mairon, Ar-Pharazôn & Tar-Míriel
Comments: 15
Kudos: 32
Collections: The Tolkien Decameron Project





	Ode to Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, by His Very Obedient Wife

**Author's Note:**

> I was working on Measure for Measure (so if you're following that fic, know I haven't abandoned it! I am just Very Bad at meeting even self-imposed deadlines), and suddenly I found that I had to write a poem. So here we are.

The King of Westernesse, the Golden One

Who rules by right of calling it his right

That he should rule – and would have been besides

A King’s own heir, but for the sad mischance

That he was sired by a younger son –

O, what a King he is! O, what a King!

O, what a glorious, high-exalted King!

He wields his scepter even as his sword,

And none can rival him in craft of war,

Nor dares attempt the same in craft of state

Lest he should change his scepter for his sword,

And end in war what was begun in state,

And so revenge the insult to his pride.

For he no insult suffers, great or small,

From any living or unliving thing.

The insolent gray hairs from off his head

He plucks with ruthlessness, and harsh requites

All traitors who dare speak the blasphemy,

The wicked slander, that his skin is creased

With lines that daily deepen on his face.

O, what a King he is! Who else has held

His youth unmarred for such a span of years,

Or fled so bravely from mortality?

He is unmatched! O, what a King he is,

This Golden One! It cuts me to the quick

That he looks darkly on me, on his wife,

His loving wife, his dear, obedient wife,

Because I have not borne him any heir.

Why should such trifles his indignance rouse?

Rulers of less ambition may desire

An heir to rule their lands when they are dead,

But he proclaims that he will never die.

And so what need of heirs, O Golden One?

For will you not seize immortality

As you have seized the scepter, seized the East,

Seized from its nest the viper that now lies

Tame at your breast, above your beating heart?

Have you not sworn, great King, to overthrow

The treacherous usurpers in the West

And claim the Life your wisdom knows they stole

From all Men, yes – but most of all from you?

Have you not sworn that everlastingly

Your heart will beat as steadily as now

Where it lies shallow-buried in your breast

So close beneath the place your viper curls?

Your viper! What a proof that you are great,

O Golden One, that you have tamed it so!

How strange its loyalty to you, O King

Of Westernesse and Middle-earth! How strange

That this, the only rival that you feared –

But nay! Who dares claim you have ever feared? –

This rival that alone was _worthy_ you

That set himself against you in his pride

And vied with you for rule of Middle-earth

(And to be flattered then in Middle-earth

As King of every other worldly sphere)

Should have been gentled by your lofty hand,

And, humbled by your mastery of war,

Should kneel to you before one blow was struck!

How strange, how wondrous strange it is, O King!

You must indeed be greatest among Men,

For such a triumph scarce can be believed,

And even looking on your captive now

Cures not the lasting incredulity.

But here, again, your greatness humbles all,

For proofs that seem unsound to lesser minds

You grasp at once, believe as easily,

Your reasoning too subtly conceived

To be explained. Of your sagacity

I stand in awe. O happy Westernesse

To have so careful and so wise a King!


End file.
